غزل شمارهٔ 463

Every moment the voice of Love is arriving from left and right; we are departing for the skies—who has a mind for sightseeing?

We were once in heaven, we were friends of the angels; let us all return thither, for that is our city.

We are even higher than the heavens, we are greater than angels; why should we not transcend both? Our lodging-place is Majesty.

How far is the world of dust from the pure substance! Upon what have you alighted? Load up—what place is this?

Young luck is our friend, to yield up the soul is our business; the leader of our caravan is Mus.t.af¯a, Pride of the World.

At his moon the moon was split, it could not endure to behold him; the moon attained such luck—she, a humble beggar.

The sweet scent of the breeze is from the curl of his tress, the glitter of this phantasm is from that cheek like the forenoon.

Behold in our hearts every moment a splitting of the moon, for why does your eye soar beyond the vision of that vision?

Mankind, like waterfowl, are sprung from the sea of the soul; how should the bird that has risen from that sea make its dwelling here?

Nay rather, we are pearls in that sea, we are all present therein; else, why does wave upon wave surge from the sea of the heart?

The wave of Alast came along and caulked the body’s ship; when the ship is wrecked once more, the turn of union and encounter will come.